


In Which Markus (Professional Highwayman) Gets Stabbed

by Octinary



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Banter, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Established Relationship, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Multi, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-10
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25189417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Octinary/pseuds/Octinary
Summary: Markus has a simple three step plan:1.  Watch the tournament at the Passiflora to see who wins the pot.2.  Get that person drunk.3.  Steal everything they have.He is also about to have three problems:1.  Geralt2.  Yennefer3.  Jaskier
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 78
Kudos: 439





	In Which Markus (Professional Highwayman) Gets Stabbed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Volts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Volts/gifts).



> This was inspired by Volts' humorous fic [In which Artur (Apprentice Thief) quits his job](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24882730). After I read that, I couldn't get this idea out of my head and the whole thing basically wrote itself in one evening. All original characters (except Leah) are Volts' and are used here with permission. Thanks for letting me play with your toys!

It was supposed to be a simple job. The annual high-stakes Gwent tournament at the Passiflora always brought a flush crowd given that the entry fee alone was a tidy 1000 crowns, and one lucky sap was going to leave at the end of the night with the whole pot, hopefully drunk, high on life and easy pickings for any half-way decent highwayman. And Markus, who’d seen the ups-and-downs of this profession for nearly two decades now, considered himself an excellent highwayman. His preferred scheme, which had been successful three times in the past eight years he’d tried, was to watch the tournament, buy the winner a few drinks to make sure that they weren’t some off-duty soldier or mage or someone that could cause a real problem, and then, if the risk seemed reasonable, jump them as soon as they left the building before anyone else got to them. Twice the risk hadn’t seemed worth it, twice the idiot had managed to spend most of the coin in the Passiflora before leaving and once Markus had lost track of the winner because a very talented lady had sat on his lap and made everything else seem unimportant by comparison, but mostly it was a good deal. Hell, even if he didn’t jump the winner, he still got to spend the evening relaxing in the company of the most beautiful and scantily clad whores on the Continent: hardly a bad consolation prize. This year though, he decided, he was definitely going for the gold.

The winner was an effervescent, talkative good-looking man, hard to judge his age, with shaggy brown hair and bright blue eyes. Probably a musician or performer of some sort, considering his grandiose posturing and what seemed to be an instrument case slung over his shoulder. Markus wasn’t terribly accustomed to dealing with the sort, musicians weren’t usually worth the trouble since they rarely carried anything of value besides their instrument, but when he offered to buy the man a drink to celebrate, he’d smiled warmly and agreed. The conversation felt effortless, carried along on a wave of stories from the bubbly victor.

“And that, my lovely, is why I don’t play a Scoia’tael deck anymore.” The winner, who’d introduced himself as Jaskier, Oxenfurt-trained troubadour extraordinaire, rested a hand on Markus’ forearm. He was very touchy, which was useful since it gave Markus an excuse to touch back and check for weapons. From what he could tell, Jaskier was wearing a couple of daggers in his boots, but those were easy enough to deal with: just don’t give him a chance to draw. His sleeves were rolled back and doublet undone due to the heat in the common room, so no surprises there. Markus did find a set of brass knuckles in a pocket of the doublet, but they were easily enough removed without the wearer noticing when he leaned over to whisper the particularly scandalous part of a tale directly into Markus’ ear. They seemed to be of decent quality, so Markus pocketed them for himself and motioned for another round.

Jaskier covered his raised hand with his own though and brought it back gently down to the table between them, oddly leaving their fingers intertwined. It seemed pretty incongruous to Markus, the bard’s soft, slender fingers next to his scarred and oft-broken stumps, but it probably indicated Jaskier was pretty far gone, which was good. “Hmm. I think not. What was it again? Pawel?”

He nodded. It was a long-standing tradition for him to give his brother’s name when asked. He felt it was only fair. Pawel had given his name in Vizima and was the reason he’d done six months of hard labour the first time he ever visited there when he was a younger man.

“Gorgeous.” Jaskier hummed. “Pawel, what would you say to heading upstairs?”

Damn. It had all been going so well, but of course the man now wanted to give all his ploughing coin back to the prostitutes instead. The newly rich were notorious for spending poorly. Ah well, you win some, you lose some. It was a hard life and he had the scars to prove it; no one had ever told him any differently. “‘Fraid that’s not exactly my speed. This place is a bit rich for my blood.” He stood, untangled their hands and patted Jaskier’s in a good natured fashion that covered him slipping a gold and ruby ring off a dainty finger. At least the night wasn’t a total loss. “I guess I’ll head off to my bed.”

“Oh!” Jaskier’s eyes shone mischievously. “If it isn’t far, you must allow me to insist on the absolute pleasure of walking you home.” He seemed to cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the witcher he’d beat in the semi-finals, but the mutant wasn’t paying them any mind. In fact he was practically broadcasting that he didn’t give a flying fuck what they were doing. If Markus didn’t know better, he’d say the thing was acting petulant. “Even if it is far, I’m sure I could make arrangements to meet my partners later…”

“Really?” So it wasn’t the smoothest recovery, but how often did a mark go out of his way to get robbed like that? Markus hurried to cover his surprise. “It isn’t. Far, I mean.” Did Jaskier think he needed the protection? Sure, the bard had a few inches on him, but it’s not like Markus didn’t look like he could hold his own in a fight. Maybe he was just feeling invulnerable on the high of his victory and wanted to parade around town like the Emperor of Nilfgaard or something. Whatever, Markus knew better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

“Mmm.” Jaskier stood, grinning madly, and looped an arm through his as they headed for the door. As they passed the white haired witcher he held up three fingers, but again the freak seemed disinclined to deign to acknowledge them.

“Friend of yours?” Witchers could be trouble. And if that one was who he suspected it was, it’d kill a man as soon as look at him. That would, despite Jaskier’s oblivious willingness to be robbed, tip this scheme into the ‘too risky to be worth it’ category for sure.

“Apparently not tonight.” Jaskier waved to a few more people, drawing altogether far more attention than Markus was comfortable with, pushed the door open and dragged them both into the night. “Lead on, my good man!”

“This way’s shortest.” He led Jaskier down a dark alley between the rows of houses beside the Passiflora. He liked this alley. He’d had a lot of success here. It even sloped down in the direction they were walking which gave Markus a slight height advantage. It was perfect. About half way down he slowed his steps slightly, letting Jaskier get just a little bit ahead of him, drew his dagger and pressed the length of hard steel against his mark’s side so he would know what was up. “Here’s far enough, I reckon.”

In the second surprising turn of the night, Jaskier let out a moan that would have given any of the very expensive ladies a few doors down a run for their money. “Sweet goddess, I haven’t been fucked in an alley in years. This is brilliant. I love it. Only I should quickly mention before we begin, no kissing; my partners take issue with it. Seriously though, whatever you charge I’m paying you double.”

“What?” It was so far off anything he could have ever imagined the bard saying that his mind couldn’t quite keep up. As a result, he didn’t stop Jaskier from setting down his lute case and turning around to face him.

“And you can keep the ring! I’m sure a treat such as yourself carries something suitable for, ah, shall we say, easing the passage though because if not I’ll just nip back into the Passiflora for a second if you don’t mind. As loathe as I am to admit it, I’m somewhat past the age where spit and enthusiasm will carry the night and-” Jaskier seemed to finally notice the dagger levelled at his abdomen. “Hang on, that’s not your cock.”

“What?!?” Markus was well aware that the amount of noise he was making was inappropriate for someone engaged in his profession, but it was hard to not be when he was taken off guard so thoroughly. “No!” he hissed, grabbing Jaskier’s arm and pushing the dagger in closer to his stomach, preventing the bard from crouching to get his boot knives. “I’m robbing you!”

“Oh.” As the reality of the situation dawned on him, Jaskier became visibly disappointed.

“You thought I was a whore?”

“Not many other people try hitting on someone in that kind of establishment.”

“I wasn’t hitting on you! I was trying to mark you!”

“Well I know that now.” Jaskier sighed deeply. “More’s the pity really. I was unreasonably excited about the idea of being the great prize stolen from under the noses of the haughty high paid porcelain professionals by the rugged, eager and enthusiastic freelancer.” He bit his lower lip, and looked up through his eyelashes. Markus didn’t understand how he could bear looking so vulnerable. Shit like that got your teeth kicked in by the boys back home. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather just fuck me? It would make such a better story.”

“What’s going on?” Markus whirled, pulling the bard in front of him and twisting Jaskier’s arm up behind his back while relocating the dagger to the pulse point at his throat. He hadn’t heard the witcher sneak up behind him, all black leather and silver in the shadows.

“Geralt!” His victim, annoyingly, sounded more peeved than anything else. Which was, in retrospect, probably the moment when Markus should have just given up and walked away. “What are you doing here? I told you to give me half an hour! You were planning on spoiling my fun, you great jealous lummox!”

Just perfect. This was Geralt of Rivia, exactly as Markus had feared. He let the hand holding the dagger fall dejected to his side as all hope left him. If this freak wanted him dead, he was dead. The Butcher of Blaviken just raised a single brow though and miraculously didn’t make a move for a weapon. “This is consensual?”

“Well,” Jaskier stammered. “Not exactly. I was making a fairly good effort to bring Pawel here around before you so rudely interrupted, but for the moment I believe I am, well, sort of being robbed.”

“Oh?” The witcher seemed very intentionally uninterested. He crossed his arms and leaned casually against the wall. “Carry on then.”

“Geralt!”

“Pardon?” Markus was not sure he had heard correctly.

"Carry on, only be quick about it. Yen’s going to be here any minute looking for us and she hates to be kept waiting.” Oddly enough Markus felt like the threat of this mysterious Yen was being levelled more at the man he was robbing than at him.

“Okay,” to say that this was an unconventional development would be somewhat of an understatement, but if the witcher was willing to stand by, Markus was willing to give it the old college try; Jaskier was carrying a lot of money. “Umm…” he adjusted his grip on the bard and his dagger, bringing it back up to press menacingly against his victim’s neck again and tried to get back into the feel of things. “Your money or your-” there was a momentary flash of tooth from the witcher and a general air of menace that caused him to stumble over the usual catchphrase, “- or, or, or else.”

“Or else?” Jaskier sounded far more insulted than suitably threatened. “That’s the best you could come up with? Or else? The entire length and breadth of the language at your fingertips, in this, a moment of high dramatic tension, and you fumblingly proclaim ‘or else’?”

“Well this isn’t normally how it goes! I’m adapting.”

The bard had the audacity to pat Markus soothingly on the forearm holding the dagger with his free hand. “Performance anxiety.” The witcher huffed a laugh and Markus felt himself going red. “It can happen to anyone. Particularly as we advance in years. I know a witch actually-”

“Shut up!” Markus shook his captive, probably more violently than was necessary if Geralt’s low growl was any indication. But where he was from, real men didn’t let anyone talk about them like that.

Before he could commit to any action though there was a loud crack from the street outside the alley, like the fabric of reality itself splitting apart, and the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen stepped delicately out of a portal. She was wearing soft black leather pants with a voluminous black and white blouse and she looked as cold and distant as the moon. So there really wasn’t any good reason she reminded him of Leah, the sun-kissed love of his twenties, except in the way she moved. They both parted the air around them with a sense of self-assurance so strong that reality itself wouldn’t have had a hope arguing with them.

The mystery sorceress, Yen presumably, took one look at the situation, Markus with his dagger to the bard’s throat and the witcher nonchalantly observing the interaction, before deciding that she was unimpressed. Markus felt immediately that it was likely not conducive to a long life to be part of the reason she was unimpressed. “Dare I ask?”

Geralt just nodded his head towards the other two. “Jaskier’s being robbed.”

“I wouldn’t be being robbed if you would do your damn job!”

“He’s not a monster, well, not my kind of monster. And I'm not being paid. How is this my job?”

The bard narrowed his eyes. “You’re just jealous I beat you in the tournament.”

Her laughter was like cool water on a hot day. No, strike that; it was like icicles on a hot day: promising welcome relief but cutting sharp instead. “You lost to Jaskier?”

Finally, Geralt seemed moved to action. He pushed himself off the wall with a burst of anger which made Markus flinch. Instead of attacking though, he just pointed accusingly at Jaskier. “You have three Clear Weather cards in your deck! We’ve played for years and you only ever have three Clear Weather cards in your deck!”

“There’s nothing in the rules that says you can’t change your deck! In fact, one could argue that the proper construction of a deck is-”

“You changed it this morning! On purpose!”

“Of course I changed it on purpose! You count cards!”

“Ahem.” Markus cleared his throat. He was unaccustomed to being so ignored. Usually the guy with the knife to your neck was the center of attention. “Are we still…?” He’d had to lower the dagger again to prevent Jaskier from slitting his own throat while arguing with Geralt and now waved it absent-mindedly back and forth between the two parties to try to encapsulate the whole mess.

Yen smiled fondly at the bard. “I suppose not. If Geralt is sulking I shall have to play hero. And, of course, reap the rewards of rescuing the fair man.” The last was directed, with a leer, at the witcher who just rolled his eyes. A surge of power began to build at her fingertips and Markus was about to start pleading for his miserable life, machismo be damned, when it dissipated just as quickly with a snap. “Wait.” A sudden frown crossed her flawless face. “If Geralt lost does that mean I don’t get my diamond?”

“Geralt promised to buy you a diamond with the winnings?” The bard laughed softly. “That’s sweet, adorable really, but if you want jewelry, I would be more than pleased to buy you jewelry. I have better taste than him anyways!”

The witcher huffed. “You do not.”

“He does too, but this wasn’t just any diamond. This was Marquise Serenity’s necklace. The one you could claim as your prize instead of the crowns.” Yen narrowed her eyes. “Did you take the money?”

For the first time since this encounter began, the man in Markus’ grip seemed nervous. “Well, um, you see, no one actually mentioned a necklace, diamond or otherwise, or I’m sure my thoughts would have immediately flown to you and how such a precious stone, while paling in comparison to your brilliance, would none-the-less accent your amazing beauty and I would have definitely-”

“Gut him.”

“I can ask Marquise Serenity to switch!”

“She wouldn’t let you.” Markus was not sure what compelled him to interject other than he had been at the tournament for the last eight years and had heard some of the rumours surrounding the famous necklace. “It was supposed to be the prize for the first tournament, but ever since the first victor won it and then gifted it back to Marquise Serenity, everyone has always forgone the necklace and just taken the cash. It’s sort of a local legend. The Jewel of the Passiflora. No one takes it.”

“Exactly! That frigid bitch has been holding onto that rock for eons. She won’t part with it that easily since you gave her such a perfectly good reason not to!” That didn’t sit right. Marquise Serenity had always seemed like a decent sort, letting him drink and watch the tournament even if he couldn't afford her ladies. As lovely as this sorceress was, that appellate seemed unnecessarily cruel.

“I wouldn’t call Marquise Serenity a frigid bitch, Yen.” Apparently the witcher agreed with him.

Emboldened, Markus added, “Yeah, she’s a sweet lady.”

Yen whirled her attention back to him. “Are you sure this is an argument you want to be a part of?”

“No, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” He went back to idly threatening the bard.

“And you were just going to have Geralt boorishly ask for it and ruin the legend?” Jaskier tutted. “Bad form, lover.”

“Well it’s a moot point now since you’ve pissed away that chance, isn’t it?” The witch crossed her arms in frustration, and maybe, possibly, just the slightest bit of shame at having disappointed the bard. “Could you just finish your stupid robbery so that we can go? This night has been enough of a waste as it is.”

Taking that as his cue, Markus shook Jaskier again, more gently this time to ensure no further growling, and tried, “Your money or I break your fingers!” It seemed like a good threat for a bard.

“Better.” Jaskier chewed his lip and wriggled slightly, but if nothing else, Markus knew how to hold a man’s arm behind his back in a way that discouraged wriggling. “Are you sure neither of the two of you feel inclined to help?”

“Why don’t you fight him?” the witcher suggested.

“He could actually stab me! Then you’ll be sorry!”

“Yen’s here. You’d probably live.”

“Eeh.” The sorceress waved her hand in a noncommittal fashion. “Non-magical injuries aren't really my forte, per se.”

“Oh for-” Without finishing the curse Jaskier stamped down on Markus’ foot, hard. Stunned by the pain and sudden action, he took a step back, marginally loosening his hold on Jaskier’s arm. With a yank, the bard was free, and before Markus could recover he had pulled the daggers from his boots, thrown one catching the thief along the back of his hand to disarm him and was holding the other like he knew exactly what to do with it if Markus took another step forward. It was actually pretty impressive.

"Fuck." Markus wisely did not make any move other than to apply pressure to the back of his wounded hand. He'd clearly underestimated the superficially frivolous man. From the typical insults thrown around between the brawlers and brutes he normally ran with, he'd figured any guy who gladly took it from other men wouldn't have been much of a fighter. Not like a real man at least. He was starting to think though that maybe there were a few pieces missing from his worldview.

“Yes, that would have been the preferred outcome, but you turned me down remember? And now it’s too late. Well-”

“Jaskier!” Yen’s voice was sharp as a bell in an abbey.

“No, no, that ship has sailed. Unfortunately. And-” the bard continued dramatically, spinning to face his companions, “I had to save myself! I hate saving myself. How am I supposed to write about your heroic exploits when the two of you were just willing to leave me at the mercy of this brigand?”

“You’ll manage, I’m sure.” Geralt nodded towards Markus. “Are you going to kill him?”

At this point, Markus was almost looking forward to it. Anything to end this ridiculous night. Truth be told, it was a fittingly pathetic end to his fittingly pathetic life. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.

“No.” Markus’ eyes snapped open and he saw Jaskier sheathing his remaining dagger. “I sound more heroic and valiant if I just hurt him enough to get away. Maybe a light stabbing at most. Killing an unarmed man isn’t worthy of song and story.” He moved around Markus to retrieve and sheath his other thrown dagger. He then grabbed Markus’ dropped dagger, but right when he was about to close his eyes and anticipate the worst again, Jaskier flipped the grip and offered it to him hilt first.

“Aren’t you going to actually stab him?”

Jasker gave Geralt a particularly patronizing look. “If I actually stab him he might die. If he dies, who is going to tell everyone I stabbed him? Think about it.” Jaskier turned his attention back to Markus, a feral look in his eyes. “You are going to tell people I stabbed you, right?”

“Sure?” He cautiously accepted his knife.

“Oh! And can I have my brass knuckles back? When I thought you were a gentleman of the evening I was going to let you keep them, everyone knows the sort of brutes that can try to take advantage of that position, but if you just go about robbing people I’d really rather prefer them back.”

Markus pulled the weapon out of his pocket and dropped it, and the stolen ring for good measure, into Jaskier’s waiting hand. That was still somehow the one part of this entire unbelievable encounter that seemed most unrealistic. He was pushing forty, missing a few teeth, scarred and plain. Sure, there’d been a few girls back home, well, one, who seemed happy enough with his company when he was younger, but now? Here, in Novigrad? How could he be mistaken for anything other than cheap hired muscle from some small Temerian backwater? “You really thought I was a whore? Looking like this?”

“Hey.” Jaskier tipped his chin up with a delicate hand and smiled. “Of all the people I didn’t already know in there, you were undoubtedly the most interesting. Don’t count your charms so miserly.” And without warning, the bard darted in and kissed him quickly. It wasn’t much more than a peck, but it was bright and cheery and the first time in many years that he hadn’t paid for it. Despite never having been inclined towards men before, the sheer novelty of being seen and wanted for what he was might have had him reciprocating anyways if he hadn’t heard the witcher growling and seen the witch glaring. He tried to step back quickly, but Jaskier just grabbed his hands, laughed and bumped their noses together playfully. “And now you can say you’ve successfully stolen something from both Geralt of Rivia, the famed White Wolf, and Yennefer of Vengerberg, the feared firebrand of Sodden Hill.”

“Come on, lecher.” Geralt dragged Jaskier, still giggling, away towards the exit of the alleyway. As they broke off, Markus felt the small weight of the gold and ruby ring back in his hands.

"It suits you better, love. And you deserve something for your trouble. Besides, I’ve come to hate red." Jaskier winked.

“You may have good taste in jewelry, but you have such awful taste in men.” Yennefer grabbed the bard as soon as he was in range and almost proprietarily wiped his mouth with her sleeve, before steering him out of the alley.

“Hey!” Geralt, who had gone to retrieve the abandoned lute, was left to follow them.

“Take care of yourself!” The bard waved cheerily as the three of them disappeared into the crowd in front of the Passiflora. “And remember! I stabbed you!”

And Markus was left alone in the dark, stunned silent. He wasn’t foolish enough to even consider not spreading the bard’s version of the botched robbery attempt; even if he didn’t think Geralt and Yennefer would come back to murder him horrendously for not holding up his side of the bargain, the rest of the criminal underworld deserved to be warned about what they were getting into if they messed with that well-loved man. But standing there, feeling unfamiliarly light with the weight of his rigid, violent persona in pieces around him, he thought he might keep the kiss to himself: a single stolen treasure too valuable to fleece.

He wanted to scoff at himself for the sentimental drivel, but a small, lonely part of him couldn’t help but point out that maybe if he’d tried a line like that on Leah instead of insisting that that wasn’t what real men were like, she wouldn’t have called him a brute and thrown him out. Hell, maybe it wasn’t too late; the last he’d heard from Pawel when he’d been back to pick up their nephew Artur for training, Leah was still stubbornly managing the brewery herself. Maybe he could stay lighter and learn to live with warm bread and cold beer and frequent bright, cheery kisses. The ring would make a decent engagement gift, especially with the story behind it. She'd said she wouldn't take anything stolen, but it wasn't really stolen now, was it? Leaving Markus the highwayman dead in the gutter, stabbed in self-defence by the brilliant Jaskier of Oxenfurt, Markus the soon-to-be-brewess’-husband headed for home.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr ([octinary.tumblr.com](https://octinary.tumblr.com/)) if you want to talk/ask me anything.


End file.
